


too good at goodbyes

by everythingislove (straykid)



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Evakteket Challenge, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, canonical breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 12:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13951536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straykid/pseuds/everythingislove
Summary: You want him to meet a woman and fall in love. You want him to plan a romantic proposal, and ask her to be his bride. You want her to say yes. You want them to have a big wedding that you won't be invited to, and give you grandchildren that you’ll never be allowed to see.You want all of this for him because you love your son. You’re not great with words, but you don’t think you could ever try to describe your love for him anyways. It’s infinite.Or: the life of Isak, as witnessed by Terje Valtersen.





	too good at goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! this started off with me experimenting with second person and exploring the character of terje valtersen, but then i decided to add it as part of the evakteket birthday challenge. i know it won't be everyones cup of tea, but i had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> my tags were: dusk or dawn, breakup, and first/second person.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy!!!

**one.**

He comes into the world without you there to welcome him.

You’re at his older sister’s first dance recital, clapping along with the other parents. You have a bouquet of the prettiest roses the grocery store had to offer in your lap, the video camera aimed right at her, and a proud grin on your face.

Marianne, your wife, opted to stay home from this event. She was freshly nine months pregnant, and had been on strict bed rest for the last three weeks. You hadn’t wanted to leave her alone, but when your little girl’s lip wobbled at the prospect of missing her show, you both caved in. Still, you’re making sure to record every moment for her to enjoy once you arrive home.

When your sweet baby girl, Lea, is finished dancing, you hand her the flowers and kiss her temple. You never knew it was possible to love a person so much, and you’re looking forward to feeling the same way about your son. ( _Son._ You’re going to have a son any day now. The reality of that has yet to sink in.)

You take her by her hand and guide her out to the car. She turns to you with big, doe eyes and asks for ice cream to celebrate; and really, how are you meant to deny her of that? She was the best little dancer on that stage. So you make a pit stop at the best ice cream place around on the way home, and merely shake your head fondly when a smear of hot fudge winds up on the front of her costume.

By the time you get home, it’s two hours later than you’d originally planned, but you’re sure that Marianne won’t mind. Your wife is an understanding woman, and will surely be happy as long as their daughter is.

Except instead of finding her tucked up in bed watching her favorite soap opera, you find the house empty. You panic, prepared to call the police and report a missing person, when Lea comes skipping into the living room with a slip of notebook paper in hand. She tells you she found it on the kitchen table.

‘ _Having contractions. Water broke at 14:00. Going to the hospital.’_

In that moment, you know you’re too late. Marianne was in labor with Lea for nearly a full day before she arrived, but it feels different with your son. You glance at the clock hanging near the entryway. It’s 21:30.

If only you had insisted on staying home. If only you had opted to leave just a few minutes later, or invested in cell phones.

You force those thoughts away. You don’t have time to waste, not when your wife is sitting alone in a hospital room. The paper flutters out of your hands and to the floor, and you quickly gather Lea up into your arms.

The drive to the hospital is a blur. You vaguely remember the jog to the receptionist, who then directs you to a different receptionist, but none of it really registers. You're focused on getting to them, uniting your family, being the supportive husband—breadwinner, father, man of the house—you strive so hard to be.

You burst into the room, and you first recognize the bags under your wife’s eyes. She looks exhausted, with ashen skin and chapped lips. You find yourself looking over her for injuries, trying to make sure that she’s alright, and—

Your breath hitches. Your heart stops. You swear the world stops spinning for that single moment.

She’s holding a tiny bundle in her arms, wrapped up in a pale blue blanket. You can’t see much from so far away, but there’s a few tufts of hair peeking out from the top.

“Halla,” Marianne murmurs. She has a tired smile on her face. “Come meet your son.”

“My brother is here?” Lea perks up in your arms, eyes widening. “Will he play LEGO with me? And watch Toy Story? Can I put him in a tiara?”

Marianne laughs softly while you step closer. “He’s too small for any of that right now, darling. But if you’re a good big sister, someday he’ll do all of that with you.”

You reach down with the arm not holding Lea on your hip, and gently brush your thumb over his tiny nose. He’s a beautiful baby, with long lashes resting against rosy cheeks. His face is squished like an elderly person, just like Lea’s was when she was born.

“How long…?” You’re trying to ask how long he’s been in this world with them, but your voice gets too thick.

“Isak Valtersen was born at 21:21,” Marianne responds. You had never officially decided on a name together, and Isak definitely wouldn’t be your first choice, but you’re not going to fight her on the matter. It’s the least you can do for leaving her to go through the pain of childbirth alone.

“He’s small,” Lea says.

“He’s perfect,” Marianne corrects, “just like you.”

Your son lets out a small noise then, something akin to a sneeze. Your heart swells with love, and you’re certain that nothing will ever feel so perfect again.

-

**two.**

Coffins should never have to be made so tiny.

Your girl was only nine-years-old. A child. _Your_ child. _Your baby._ You will never understand how the world is so unfair.

You feel numb on the day of the funeral, and it takes you fifteen minutes to come out of the bathroom. When you finally do, you nearly trip over the little form standing in the doorway. Isak has a tie clutched in one pudgy toddler hand, and a crease between his brows. He offers the tie up _,_ clearly having been sent to you with the task.

Wordlessly, you kneel in front of him, and carefully tie it around his collar. It feels like it should be a monumental moment, a special father-son thing, but you don’t want to remember anything about this day. You make quick business about the entire ordeal, and stand up as soon as you’re finished to start down the hall.

“Pappa,” Isak whispers. You pause your steps but don’t dare turn around. “Love you.”

Your heart leaps to your throat. Your feet move forward. You still don’t turn around.

You don’t say it back. ~~You never say it again.~~

-

**three.**

“Get away from me!”

You barely manage to dodge out of the way of the glass that comes flying toward your head. It shatters against the wall behind you, and you can feel a few of the shards ricochet off your back.

“Marianne!” You shout, but it sounds like a plea. “I’m your husband!”

She’s been doing this a lot lately; hallucinating things that aren’t there, or experiencing delusions. She has her good days and her bad days, but lately the good have been far and few between.

Today is a very bad day. She keeps shouting at you, saying that you’re a government spy who’s trying to kill her. You want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her that you would never hurt her, but you can’t.

“They’re everywhere,” she whispers brokenly. She’s shaking now, and you wish you weren’t so useless to her. “I can’t get away from them, and they’re everywhere. Sinful, devious monsters are living in our walls! We need to cleanse!”

“We’re the only ones here,” you tell her gently. Then you remember a certain little boy sitting at the table, and poorly mask a grimace. “Isak, you, and I are the only ones here.”

“We’re here, mamma,” Isak confirms earnestly. “I even checked under your bed for monsters, and there’s none there!”

You’re suddenly struck by just how young your son is. He should be oblivious to the cruelties of the world, not trying to calm his mother down. You should be protecting him, but you can’t. You don’t have it in you.

You’ve tried getting her to doctors, but she refuses. The one time you had to take her to the ER, they recommended long-term psychiatric care but couldn’t provide a diagnosis. You don’t know what’s going on with your wife, but something isn’t right, and you’re helpless.

Her nails are worn down to nubs, and there’s dozens of cuts scattered across her pale skin. She sinks to the floor sobbing, shards of glass slicing into her knees. _You can’t do this. You can’t do this. Youcan’tdothis._

You look at her. You look at Isak, who is watching the scene unfold with huge eyes and an ashen complexion. His eyes turn to you, like you’re supposed to be able to fix this.

You walk out of the room.

-

**four.**

He’s good with the ladies, your boy. You’ve heard he and Jonas discussing that behind his bedroom door, when they think you can’t hear. You know that he’ll make some woman very happy someday, and be every bit of the man you’ve failed to be.

It’s all you can think about as you empty your dresser drawers into a suitcase. You don’t want Isak to grow up being anything like you. You want happiness for him; forgiveness. Things that you’re still struggling with.

You want him to meet a woman and fall in love. You want him to plan a romantic proposal, and ask her to be his bride. You want her to say yes. You want them to have a big wedding that you won't be invited to, and give you grandchildren that you’ll never be allowed to see.

You want all of this for him because you love your son. You’re not great with words, but you don’t think you could ever try to describe your love for him anyways. It’s infinite.

But you can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand watching your wife refuse the treatment she desperately needs. You hate returning home at the end of a long day of work to a house tainted by memories of when times were better. Everywhere you look, you see Lea, and the woman your wife used to be, and it's all too much for you.

You’re a coward for leaving, and an even bigger one for trying to sneak out at dawn. You load your bags into the car while the sun rises behind you, and you’re struck by the symbolism of it all. It’s the brink of a new day, and you’re getting ready to begin a life away from the only people you’ve ever called family.

You shut the trunk with a bang, and that’s when you see him. Isak’s standing at the front door, staring at you in horror. Like you’re a stranger or a monster—or both. And a small part of you is thankful for that, because you haven’t been ‘pappa’ since you buried your little girl, and it seems Isak finally understands that. Maybe now he’ll stop thinking the best of you, and save himself a world of disappointment.

“This is it then? You’re leaving us?”

You nod, because you don’t have anything to say. Or maybe you’re too cowardice to tell him the truth to his face—you’re too weak to carry on this way.

“You’re a fucking asshole, and I hate you,” your boy says. You know that he’s not lying.

“One day,” you find yourself saying, “you might be able to understand.”

“Understand this,” Isak spits. He raises his middle finger at you, and then storms down the hallway.

“I love you too,” you whisper under your breath, like you have from outside his closed bedroom door every night since the funeral.

It’s only when you’re pulling out of the driveway that you remember your boy used to love sunrises. He would climb into your bed at some awful hour of the morning and beg you to take him outside. Sometimes, you’d pretend to sleep right through the little hands shaking you relentlessly. But there were times that you agreed.

Once, you laced up his sneakers for him and walked him to the park. The city was silent, save for the giddy giggles of your son. And you’ll never forget the look of pure awe on his face as he took in the colors painting the sky. You stayed there until the sun was hanging high in the sky, and your son was dozing off in your arms.

 _Dawn,_ you think numbly, _is just another thing you’ve ruined for him._

-

**five.**

You don’t know why you ask him about the Christmas concert. It’s probably because you’re selfish. You know that he won’t want to see you, but you want to see him, and you know that Marianne will too.

You don’t know much about your son’s life right now, only that’s he’s staying in a kollektiv with a few friends. One is called Eskild, who you spoke to briefly on the phone. He wanted to make sure you were okay with the arrangement; or rather, be sure the police wouldn’t come kicking down his door and accuse him of kidnapping a minor. The others are girls, but you’re clueless about them. You hope they’re nice.

_Fine. I’ll come to the Christmas concert. I’m bringing my new boyfriend. His name is Even. That’s a boy’s name._

You stare at the message for a long time after you open it—so long that the screen turns black. You’re too shocked to unlock your phone, but the words are already engraved into your brain.

Your son likes boys; or at least, he’s saying that he does. Maybe this is a cry for attention?

You’re not homophobic, but you’re cautious. You think of this confession combined with the obsessive religious tendencies of your wife, and you wince.

_I don’t understand if you’re kidding now? If you have a boyfriend that’s very nice Isak, I’d love to meet him, but you know how mom is, she gets stressed out easily._

He doesn’t send you a reply.

Eventually, you decide to call him. You might not be close anymore, but you want him to know that he has your support on this. You’re not going to think any less of him because he happens to prefer boys to girls.

You start with casual conversation, asking if he’s coming to the concert. He tells you that he is. Then there’s silence, and you know that you have your opportunity.

“How nice that you’ve got a boyfriend,” you say.

“It was just a joke,” he responds quickly.

You pause. You had considered that possibility of course, but the confession had seemed earnest. “Yes. Oh… okay. Well. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

There’s another pause.

“Pappa?”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t a joke. It’s just over.”

You press your lips together. Young love rarely ends well, but you remember your first heartbreak vividly. You hate that he’s going through this.

“Okay. Is it… are you sad?” you ask.

“Nei,” Isak rushes out. You think he sounds choked up, but you have no right to press him for honesty.

“Well, okay.”

“Yeah.”

You say goodbye after that, not sure what else to say. The entire exchange was awkward, but it was more of a conversation than you’ve had in years. It feels like a victory, even if it shouldn’t.

When Isak shows up at the Christmas concert alone, you’re not surprised. You’re not even surprised when he rushes out in the middle of it, his phone clutched in his hand. You just hope that things work out for him in all the ways they didn’t for you.

-

**+1.**

You know that something is going on when your son’s boyfriend invites you out for coffee. You’ve only met Even once. He was a perfect gentleman, who somehow managed to calm your son with just a hand on his knee. You decided that they fit well with one another, even being as young as they were. You’re confused by his offer, but you agree, because it’s clear that something important is going on.

The cafe is a small place that you pass everyday on the way to work. It’s quiet and casual, the sort of place that makes you feel calm from the moment you step inside. You think you can understand why he chose to meet you here.

You spot him sitting at a table near a window. He waves at you with a blinding grin as you approach.

“Hei Terje,” Even says. You’re prepared for a handshake, but he brings you in for a hug. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too,” you say stiffly. You’ve never been a very touchy-feely person.

Even lets you go after a moment, and gestures for you to sit down. There’s a black coffee already waiting for you, beside a few packets of sugar and a jug of milk.

He starts to tell you about his life, and subsequently, Isak’s. They’ll be graduating from the University of Oslo at the end of May, and he hopes you’ll be able to make the ceremony. He’s got an internship lined up with NRK, and hopes one day you’ll be seeing his name beside ‘director’ in the credits of some of their shows. Isak is applying to med schools, but he’s still not sure if that’s what he wants to do. You want to say that you’ll be proud of him no matter what, but you merely nod.

“I really love him,” Even finishes. He has a look in his eyes that you recognize all too well, which might be why you know exactly what he’s going to say next. “I’d like your permission to marry him.”

It makes your chest ache, because you always thought you’d be in this position with Lea. You’d intimidate the boy daring to ask for her hand in marriage, but ultimately clap him on the back and give your blessings.

You pour a sugar packet into your drink to distract yourself from those thoughts. “You don’t need my permission, kid. I don’t think that Isak will care.”

“He loves you,” Even says, “and I know he would appreciate it.”

“You’ll take good care of him?” The _better care of him than I did_ goes unsaid.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ll make sure that he takes good care of you too?”

Even grins. “He always does.”

“Good,” you nod. “Then go right ahead and marry him.”

The kid looks like he wants to sprint right out of the place and do just that, but he stays. You make more conversation about things like weather, and where the best restaurants in the city are. He asks about your job, and you tell him about your thrilling days as an accountant. When you both stand up to leave, he hugs you again. This time, you hug him back.

Two months later, you get a special envelope in the mail. It has the initials ‘E & I’ monogrammed on the front. You’re already smiling when you open it.

**_Isak Valtersen_ **

**_and_ **

**_Even Bech Næsheim_ **

_Request the honor of your presence at their wedding_

_May 16th, 2024_

You hang the invitation on your fridge, and mark the date off on your calendar. You’re not yet sure if you’ll attend, but the day that your son is getting married to one of the best damn men you’ve ever met feels like something to be proud of.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
